Secrets
by Celandine Brandybuck
Summary: Hermione finds out something unexpected about Minerva McGonagall. Complete.


**Author's note:** written by request for marvthegrate.

* * *

After half a year and more, Hermione's hair had at last grown out enough to conceal the terrible scars. She had been lucky not to have been killed during the final dreadful assault on Lord Voldemort, or so everyone had assured her at the time. But she had not felt lucky, not when so many of her friends were also either injured or dead: Harry reduced to a mindless wreck in St. Mungo's, Ginny's limbs all turned to flippers by a spell no one had yet been able to counteract, Ron... She did not want to think about Ron, or the last time they had spoken. Hermione had been in St. Mungo's herself for months, and when released, had been unwilling to go home to live tamely with her parents while she decided what to do with her life. They loved her, she knew that, but there was simply no way she could share what had happened with them. Bitter experience had taught her that even another young wizard or witch might not understand.

It took her by surprise when Professor McGonagall offered her house room, saying in her dry way that she expected Hermione might find the location isolated, but perhaps that would be all to the good. After thinking it over, Hermione accepted. She had the feeling that Minerva McGonagall understood her sense of alienation, and would let her be. Indeed in the huge old house it was easy to imagine oneself altogether alone much of the time. When she arrived, her erstwhile teacher had made plain what she was to expect.

"First of all, Hermione, I would prefer that you call me Minerva. Now that I no longer teach at Hogwarts, 'Professor McGonagall' would be inappropriate. Second, you are not to feel yourself under any obligation to me. You needed somewhere to stay, and I had it to offer. Look about the grounds, the house, do as you like." The older witch smiled. "I think you fill find much in the library to keep you occupied. Dinner is always served at seven, and I often have a glass of wine beforehand, at which you are welcome to join me. For breakfast and lunch, tell Miggsy what time you prefer."

"Miggsy?" Hermione asked.

"The house-elf who serves me." Minerva – Hermione reminded herself to think the name – raised an eyebrow. "I know that you had some odd ideas about house-elves when you were a student, didn't you? Thinking that they should be paid, or freed, or some such. Please refrain from continuing that here. Miggsy is older than I am, and she would be heartbroken if you tried to persuade her that she should no longer serve the McGonagall family."

Hermione agreed to that; she was, after all, a guest. As time went by she came to realize that Miggsy was devoted to Minerva and would regard any attempt to alter her status as the gravest of insults.

It was the library that, perhaps, became Hermione's salvation. While studying she could forget her grief and resentment toward Ron for a time, so that she did not wallow in it but dealt with the emotions bit by bit. As the unhappy memories slowly receded, she grew interested in the books again for their own sake, for the delight she had always taken in learning something new. The McGonagalls had evidently been scholars of one sort or another for generations, for the collection was even more extensive than that at Hogwarts, and Hermione let herself browse them without restraint. More than once, Miggsy had to interrupt to remind her that it was the dinner hour, and Hermione would appear in the dining room with apologies to Minerva for her tardiness.

One night, though, it was not a puzzling aspect of advanced arithmancy or a new insight into the uses of manicore teeth in potions that distracted Hermione. It was her discovery of a shelf that held books of a sort that she would not have expected Minerva to have, whose brisk yet restrained demeanor had always seemed to Hermione to be that of the perfect teacher, more interested in her subject than in the people who practiced it. And yet clearly that was not so. Hermione looked at the publication dates of the books – all within the past sixty years, though none within the past decade. She knew that Minerva had lost the last of her family more than forty years before. This was not a collection acquired by some rakish eighteenth-century ancestor; it must have been Minerva herself who had chosen them. Some were Muggle-published "art books," quite ordinary except for the subject matter. Picture after picture showed an astounding variety of sexual acts, some between men and women, but even more displaying men with men and women with women. While some were modern photographs, others were reproductions of earlier art, especially Greek vases. A few of those were so graphic that Hermione blushed to look at them, even alone.

The wizarding books were even more remarkable. Potions, charms, spells of all sorts that clearly served the purpose of pleasure and nothing else; pleasure through pain, in many cases. Hermione flipped through the pages of book after book. As she opened the last on the shelf, something fell out, fluttering to the carpet. Hermione picked the piece of paper up to put it back in the book and glanced at it idly. It was a photograph, a wizarding photograph now fading somewhat with age, of a woman, a teacher, beating a girl in a scanty school uniform with a wooden spoon. Compared to the pictures in the books Hermione had just seen, it was nothing very exotic, but what arrested her attention was the face of the girl. She was enjoying her punishment, so much was clear from the way she wriggled her hips and smiled as the spoon landed on her buttocks, but there was something else.

Hermione dropped both book and photograph as she realized that Minerva was the girl in the picture. Hastily she picked them up and replaced the photograph in the book and the book on the shelf, backing away as if she feared they would explode.

She was unaccustomedly quiet at dinner that night. She caught herself several times looking at Minerva and trying to imagine her in the schoolgirl's uniform. The older witch seemed not to notice her silence, to Hermione's relief, talking about some changes that were to be implemented by the Ministry of Magic, intended to improve human-centaur relations. When they finished eating, Hermione made the excuse that she was tired and thought she would go to bed early.

Up in her room, Hermione threw open the windows and let the chill air of the autumn in until she shivered. It was Minerva in the picture, she was sure of it, but what did it mean? Did Minerva enjoy that sort of thing still? Did she – Hermione hesitated – did she like to cause pain as well as receiving it? And was it only physical pain? Had Minerva invited Hermione to live here because she could watch Hermione's pain that way? It seemed so unlikely. Never by a word or look had Minerva ever indicated any interest in Hermione beyond that of a teacher in a favorite pupil, or more recently a friend in a friend. And just because she had once done such a thing did not mean she still did, or wanted to. The most recent of the books Hermione had seen was ten years old or more. Yet Hermione could not get the disturbing image and ideas out of her mind.

Over the next several weeks she thought about it at odd intervals as she studied, or walked in the garden now barren of leaves, or talked as naturally as she could with Minerva. Finally she decided to speak, one night as they were having their usual glass of wine before dinner.

"I found an old photograph in one of the books I was looking through."

"Oh? One never knows what will fall out of some of those old volumes," said Minerva. "My uncle Hermes would use anything handy as a bookmark, up to and including a newt's tail. Mother used to scold him about it regularly."

"I don't think this belonged to your uncle," said Hermione. She had tucked the photograph into her cardigan pocket earlier, and now held it out.

Minerva leaned forward in her chair and took it. "Oh, my. Oh my dear Hermione, wherever did you find this?"

"In _Hexes for Hedonists_," said Hermione bluntly. "On the bottom shelf of the seventeenth bookcase on the left-hand side of the room.

"And you recognized me, didn't you," Minerva stated rather than asked. "That was Miss Elsie, Elsie Witherspoon. She's been gone for thirty years and more." Minerva looked at Hermione. "She taught me..." her voice trailed off.

"I see what she taught you," said Hermione, hating herself for the brusque words even as she said them. "Did you teach any of your students, too?"

Minerva shook her head. "No. No. Albus knew. He was the only one at Hogwarts who did; I told him when I started teaching there, because I needed his help. I wanted us to work together to convince the rest of the staff to ban corporal punishment. I was afraid it would be too great a temptation for me, you see. Albus understood that, and helped. It's not quite like being a werewolf, but not something a parent would want in a teacher, either." She sighed. "Age doesn't always bring wisdom. I suppose I should not have invited you to live here. No one would ever have known. I hope you don't feel you must leave on account of this."

Hermione was silent for a while. Then she said, slowly, "As long as what you did or do in your private life didn't harm any students, while they were your students, I don't see that it's any of my business or anyone else's. Sometime I will have to leave; this has been a refuge but I can't hide here forever. But not on account of that photograph." She remembered things that she and Ron had said, that last time they had met. "I think we all have some secrets we need to keep."


End file.
